Dazzled by the Body

by Michael Miley

All my life I’ve been dazzled by the body, 

by the whiskering face in the reflecting silver,

by the intelligent, eager willingness of hands, 

by the knowing, hardy mobility of feet, 

by the warm cloak of the torso, 

which wraps the heart

in a flesh disguise, so the beating

in its chest is like stealthy footsteps

in a radio thriller: heard, but not seen.

What is this creature? Who shaped its shape?

How did I come to inhabit such a house? 

Each morning, I step into a kind of cloud

to wash its face, shampoo its hair,

christen the soft vessel―a boat made of hide―

with a bottle of rain, and sail into the day. 

Each day I debark on the shores

of a green world, 

dreaming of what I seek, 

but more amazed by what I find,

and the body is the sponge

from which I drink the cider of life.

How is this possible?

How is this sea-sponge 

filled with gold water?

Yet, the novel times 

I’ve buzzed out of the flesh,

I know I’m more like a swarm of bees

than the hive that’s hung on the tree of bones,

and the deeper dazzlement is yet to come

when I kiss this honey world good night

and fly from this house

o’er the road to pure daylight.

                     

                                             ***